Deathlands 117: Desolation Angels by James Axler

enough to take anybody aback if they’d walked in on it unsuspecting.
    “Blasters lying all over the place like somebody knocked over an armory,” the other cop yelled. “And a bunch of backpacks stashed in the back.”
    “Those’d be ours,” Ryan said. “Also the weps.” He grinned. “Some of them, anyway.”
    The lieutenant stuck his Mauser C96 in a cross-draw holster in front of the clasp of his web gear. Ryan wondered if those were fashionable in the Detroit rubble, too, or it was just another coincidence.
    The mounted officer pointed to several of the infantrymen in turn. “Go secure the weapons and gear,” he said. “Load them in the Commando.”
    That had to be where the Diesel growl came from and no doubt the heavy MG fire, too. The V-100 Commando was a burly four-wheeled armored car made by Cadillac Gage, which if Ryan could trust his ancient history, had once been a proud Detroit company.
    “I’m Lieutenant Mahome,” the officer said, turning back to the captives.
    “I’m Ryan Cawdor.” Ryan named the others off in turn.
    “What are you doing here?” Mahome asked. “Apart from walking into the Cobo Center and kicking the whole Angels hornet nest right the nuke over?”
    “Was that their headquarters?” Ryan asked. “Cobo Center?”
    “Not exactly. It’s their stronghold, where a lot of their fighters and workers bunk. They actually farm the old show floor with the roof gone and all. Protects the crops from the wind.”
    “We saw,” Ryan said.
    “But their real fortress is the Joe. Old hockey stadium right near it. That’s where their boss, Red Wings, hangs his hat. Vicious, crazy old bastard that he is.”
    “That used to be the name of the hockey team in Detroit,” Mildred said.
    “Is that so? Anyway, Mr. Cawdor, you were about to explain how you happened to stroll in there.”
    “We just arrived in the ville,” Ryan said. “We’re looking for work. Don’t know the place, so we just started walking.”
    “Come across from the Windsor rubble, did you? Don’t blame you for clearing out of there. Stuff happens down there that’d gag a stickie.”
    “Funny you should mention that, Lieutenant—”
    “Oh, you ran into them, too? They got into that old parking structure right across from the Center ten years or so back. Angels get their asses handed to them whenever they try to clear them out. Makes them hotter than nuke red.”
    “Easy with those weps, son,” J.B. called to a cop emerging from the building carrying his M4000 in one hand and Ryan’s Scout longblaster in the other. “We’ll be wanting those back.”
    “No fucking way, coldheart,” Kurtiz barked. “We’re confiscating them.”
    “Not necessarily,” Mahome said.
    The sergeant snapped his head around. Ryan was surprised he even could, given how little he showed by way of a neck.
    “What do you mean, Lieutenant? We can’t let a bunch of random assholes out of the Deathlands wander around our city! What happened to restoring law and order?”
    “That remains to be seen,” Mahome said evenly, “until we get them back to headquarters. Where their fates will be decided by people above your pay grade or mine.”
    He looked back to the prisoners. “You can put your arms down.”
    “Yeah!” Kurtiz shouted. For once he sounded approving, though still shouting every syllable. “That way we can secure their wrists!”
    “No,” Mahome said. “I don’t think there’s a need for that. They’re disarmed and we outnumber them. And I don’t think they pose much flight risk, now that we have all their stuff. Do you, Mr. Cawdor?”
    “Depends,” Ryan answered. “If you’re just taking us back so your bosses can chill us, I’d rather we take our chances here and now.”
    “We don’t play that way,” Mahome said. Ignoring that Kurtiz muttered “ I would” under his breath, the lieutenant went on loudly, “As the sergeant rightly reminded us, we’re the forces of law and order. We’re the good